


Imperfect

by ghostb0y



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, M/M, Minor Character Death, No Smut, Pale Bondage, Pale Porn, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-11 22:37:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7910266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostb0y/pseuds/ghostb0y
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>officially: Dualscar is really good at keeping up an air of invulnerability. He's a fierce, aggressive troll whose only job is to literally murder your lusus and feed it to another. He never lets his guard down, even for a second, and he's been known to cull his subordinates for merely looking at him the wrong way. He has no weaknesses--or so it seems. Every once in a while, though the occasions are few and far between, Dualscar will go missing. It's rarely for more than a few hours, a night at the very most, but even so nobody knows what he does in these small lapses in oversight. Nobody, that is, except for one very important landdwelling troll. Here we see the Orphaner Dualscar and the Grand Highblood, rendesvouzing four nights after the second Dim Season's first bilunar perigee.</p><p>alternately: in which dualscar wakes up in a shit mood and the day is almost completely horrible except for that one part where his moirail is a confusing piece of clown garbage who understands him better than he understands himself</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imperfect

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aquatarius](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquatarius/gifts).



> okay i know this might not be exactly what you asked for but i started writing and it kinda got away from me ;; heheh  
> i hope you like self depreciating fishfaced assholes with a penchant for neglecting royally-assigned responsibilities, because this has all of that and more

My life fucking sucks.

That's the first thought that you happen to have on this particular evening upon waking up. You know you have a long night ahead of you, you always do, but this is not one of those nights where you hop out of your recuperacoon and around your hive, eager to get out and begin the night's hunting. No, this evening you feel sluggish and tired, and you take your time with your ablutions, drearily washing the slime from your chitin before it has a chance to dry.

Once you're out and dried off, you dress yourself in your best suit in the vague hopes that seeing yourself looking sharp as hell will boost your spirits enough for you to make it through the night without any unnecessary casualties. It doesn't work, but you tell yourself it does just so you can walk out the door--away from the mirror--faster. You have a feeling tonight is going to be a long night.

You have no idea just how correct you are.

You barely have two minutes to yourself once you finally arrive before your subordinates start shoving unimportant things in your face. New weapons from the blueblood forges. Some lowblood cullbait inviting you to a meeting of "elitist trolls" for some new bullshit religion. A huge stack of paperwork. And another, and another, and another, until you can't fucking take it anymore and--whoops, you get teal blood all over whatever the fuck is covering your desk. Well, it isn't the first time and it sure as hell won't be the last.

But what really pisses you off most of all: a new shipment of clueless violet recruits, practically fucking grubs, most of them not even had their adult molt yet. Their chitin looks lily fucking white next to yours and you hate it. You hate them. You hate _you_.

You look out of the viewing portal on the wall at the moons, rising steadily in the sky together and casting a vague pinkish green glow over everything (what would that color even be called? Grink? Peen? That second one sounds somewhat suggestive to you, though you aren't sure why). You're not even sure why you got out of your recuperacoon this evening; clearly, everything you're doing here is worthless. Actually, you can't even say that much, because you are literally doing nothing right now. You're just sitting here at your desk with your thumbs up your nook like the utter moron that you are. You're not even out in the field tonight, you have too much stupid goddamn fucking paperwork for that so your more experienced lackeys are grubsitting the new recruits--and you say grubsitting because you know that nothing important is ever going to get fucking done without you actually there, breathing down their necks like some fucking ever-patient being telling them what exactly to do and how exactly to do it. You know that that isn't you, and they sure as fuck know that that isn't you, and you don't know why they all still act like fucking idiots. Maybe they get it from you.

You slouch down in your chair, content with sitting here for the rest of the night feeling like shit. However, it seems like you haven't been absolved of your plaintive existence quite yet. You hear footsteps thumping down the hall and an annoying, squeaky voice telling whoever this bigass piece of shit is that "Hey, you might not want to go in there!"

The voice that replies makes you sit ramrod straight in your chair. What the empress-fearing fuck is he doing here?! He never visits you at work, especially not in broad fucking moonlight where literally everyone can see, oh you are so going to kill him for this, you had an agreement for fuck's sake-!

Your panicked thoughts are interrupted by the entrance to your office being suddenly violated by a massive presence. The Grand Highblood stands in your doorway in all his painted murderclown glory, and the look on his face makes you a little scared, then a little worried. He stands there silently, glaring in your general direction, and you hesitantly grasp at the beginning strands of an explanation

"...Grand? What are you doin’ here?" You ask, uncon-sciously leaning forward in your chair a bit. He stares at you, then sighs, walking further into your office. You barely have time to note that he didn't close the door before he's leaning over your desk, his face brushing against your own.

"There's a vehicle outside. Get in and wait for me," a gravelly whisper caresses your ear. You blink, and the next few moments are a blur. There's a slight pressure at the base of your fin--a kiss?--and then he's gone, and the next thing you know you're met with the sight of your utterly blank office. You can just barely see a splash of cobalt on the wall right outside the door; you guess that squeaky voice from earlier got a little too close for Grand's liking.

You set your hands down flat on the desk and take a deep breath. The moons outside are high in the sky; it's somewhere around midnight, if not earlier. It hasn't even been half a night yet and you're already leaving. What a worthless piece of shit.

You continue your mental reaming as you slowly rise from your desk and make for the door. You're usually not like this, at least not so outwardly, but you suppose it can't be helped. You are nothing if not efficient with all of your work, even the parts you hate--looking at you, huge pile of paper--but there are these rare moments where your career catches up with you and you can't help but feel like the biggest piece of lusus killing garbage on the face of the planet. You remember your own lusus, though you've been perfectly self-sufficient for hundreds of sweeps now, if not thousands. You guess he's still alive and caring for violet grubs, though you can't be totally sure; after all, there is no shortage of seahorse lusi on Alternia. Finding your own lusus would be impossible, and that's assuming he's still alive in the first place. You like to consider yourself a realist, and the truth of it is that even if he were to survive and find other grubs to custodialize, lusi have shorter lifespans than their wards. If he isn't dead by now, he's almost there. You don't know how many grubs he cared for before you, but you figure there were quite a few. It was obvious he wasn't young when he chose you, and he always seemed to know what to say and do. He knew things that by now you knew were learned from experience, not instinct.

You don't know when you left the building's premises, much less got in Grand's hilariously innocuous vehicle and rolled up all the windows, but you're startled out of your reverie when the door is slammed shut after an enormous presence. Your head darts up, your eyes wide and vulnerable--so unlike you, you should be fearless, you should be invincible--and your gaze locks with that of your diamond. His eyes are so intense, your breath hitches in your throat. Your lips part ever so slightly and your eyes widen just as much. You have to look away.

"...Grand," you mutter in acknowledgement, staring at your shoes now. You feel like there are eyes everywhere, boring into you even through the deeply tinted viewing portals. Your heart feels like it has jumped into your throat; anything else you might have said is choked down. You're by no means a small troll yourself, but when you're with Grand, especially like this, you can't help but feel...insignificant. You've told him this before, obviously, but when you did he just laughed a little sadly and told you how much "a motherfucker gets to feelin' little about another motherfucker, too". So instead of mentioning this to him again, you slouch down in your padded seat, glaring daggers at the blacked out portal separating you from the driver. As if they feel your stare, the vehicle rumbles to life and starts moving.

You can still feel his eyes on your face. In your peripheral vision you see his massive mane of hair turned towards you. It's been quite a few seconds, but he still hasn't replied, and neither have you. Finally, you hear a sigh from him and he leans on you, resting one of his long horns in the upward hook of your own. You turn your head away from him, but only so much that you can't see his actual face. You don't dislodge his horn from your own, though you feel like you definitely need to; these windows aren't completely opaque, what if someone sees? You're supposed to be this big stone cold badass, what would your inferiors think if they found out you had left in the middle of the night to go fucking gallivanting with pretty much the only important landdweller in existence? And empress forbid they find that this hunk of juggalo garbage is your moirail, oh fuck no. Fuck that. Fuck this entire situation.

You slouch down even further in your seat, enough so that Grand's head hits his shoulder and your gentle hornlock is broken. He sighs, but says nothing, and makes no move to touch you. You've been through this too many times to count.

You spend so long stewing in your own self loathing that you don't even realize where the vehicle is talking you, nor when it stops.You're only brought back to awareness by Grand's bulky warmth leaving your side. You look up and get out after him, then stop dead in your tracks when you realize where you are.

“Grand,” you say, confusion and incredulity evident in your voice and on your face. He stops and turns to face you, already standing in the doorway to your hive.

“Yes?” His voice is so calm and innocent, you almost flip pitch on him for a moment.

“Why the fuck are we here?” There's a question mark on the end of that inquiry, though it doesn't seem that it came out of your mouth that way.

“Because you motherfuckin’need to be, Palescar,” is all he says before he turns back around and enters your living block, leaving you standing there in front of your own hive, feeling more confused than you've been in perigees.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” you ask the air. “Grand? Grand!” you yell after your diamond, running through the open front door. “What does that even-”

Your mouth hangs open, the next syllable trapped in your throat. He's just sitting there on your couch, but it's different. You've never seen him so simultaneously relaxed and uncomfortable. He's sitting in the middle of your three-seat couch, his legs spread wide as if he's the only one in the hive, as if he's lived here all his life. He takes up half the couch from the middle, looking for all the world like he belongs there, except for the look on his face. He looks like someone just punched his lusus in the face then killed all of his quadrants right in front of him.

You suddenly feel very uncomfortable standing up. You can't sit down though, because he's taking up all the room on the only seating apparatus you have in this block, and you're not about to leave him alone while he looks like that. So, you stand. You feel insanely awkward doing so, but you do, because you don't know what else to do.

The object of your apprehension speaks up.

“A group of your newbies killed three of my clowns tonight,” he states, and oh boy this is not going to be a fun jam. You're so unprepared for this, you don't even have a pile what is he doing?

“Grand, I...they…” you stammer, but you're cut off before you can shove your foot any further down your throat than you already inadvertently have it.

“Do you not inform your new recruits of your alliances? There were twelve of them, shark. Three against twelve.”

You feel a slew of emotions twist in your gut, anger and shame and disappointment turning your stomach into an amalgam of negativity. “I'm sorry, Grand,” you say around the lump in your throat. “I don't even know what to tell you. You're right, I should’a been out there trainin’ ‘em, but…” your voice dies out when you feel two warm hands encompass your own. You look down to see Grand grasping your hands, sitting on the edge of the sofa.

“But it's hard, isn't it?” he inquires gently, his raspy voice inciting a tired chirp from your throat.

“It's so hard,” you confirm. “It's hard bein’ the one in charge all the time. It's hard, and no one understands.”

Grand squeezes your hands and you look him in the eyes. They're full of some emotion you aren't sure you've seen before, at least not from him.

“I understand, sharkie,” he says quietly.

You fall into his lap, finally losing your strength--it's a wonder you hadn't already fallen--and his strong arms wrap around your smaller frame. You wrap your arms around him, too, pressing soft kisses into his shoulder where your face is buried.

The position is awkward, but you know it'll be changed soon enough. You don't know why, but every time something like this happens, it takes you the entire night to figure out what it is you want, what you _need._ But now that you've realized it, you know that he has too, and it'll all be okay soon.

Your thoughts are confirmed as fact when he stands up, keeping you pressed tight against him with a hand supporting your ass. A bubbly purr rumbles in your chest in anticipation, and you feel more than hear Grand’s chuckle. A short walk later and he's closing the door to your block, sitting you on the floor and situating himself in front of you with your legs laid over his, your foreheads touching. You lean forward with closed eyes and knock your horns into his softly. A deep purr rumbles from within him, mingling with the sound of your own.

“What do you want, my shark?” he asks, his soft, warm breath washing over your face.

“I want it all,” you answer in kind. “Make me forget who I am.”

Grand honks softly and pulls away, and you open your eyes to see him smiling at you. A blush dusts your cheeks and fins with a deep violet.

“Ropes?” he asks, going down his mental checklist.

“Yes,” you answer in kind.

“Arms and legs?”

“Yes.”

“Gag?”

“Yes.”

“Blindfold?”

You hesitate. “Er, maybe not,” you say, “not that one. I want to see you.” Your blush may or may not intensify.

“Okay,” he confirms with a gentle smile. You think you can see a flush beginning to take form in his high cheekbones, but you aren't sure. “Any punishments?”

“No,” you tell him, “nothing else this time. I just want you.” That's definitely a blush on his face now, spreading up to the pointed tips of his ears.

“Okay,” he says softly, and then there's a pile of silk rope in your lap, along with a thick bandanna. You gulp; you're almost 3000% positive your face is a literal grape right now, but you can't help it.

The bandanna comes first. He picks it up and brings it toward your face, and you open your mouth obligingly. He stuffs the thickest part of it between your jaws and your sharp teeth sink into it. However, instead of just shredding it like you would any other miscellaneous piece of cloth that dared to come near your mouth, it is immediately tied behind your head, so tightly that you have to force your jaws to shut even a little bit around it.

"Is 'at okay, Palescar?" he asks, and you flex your jaw, testing it again, then give him an enthusiastic nod and an affirmative little noise. The gag's purpose here is more incoherence than silence, so the sound is easily overlooked by your diamond. "You're so good, you're doing so well, my pretty pale shark," he murmurs in your ear. You chirp softly at the praise, which puts a soft, loving grin on his face. He raises a hand to pap your cheek and you shiver, leaning into the touch. "Alright, shark, I'm starting on the ropes now, yeah?" You nod again, watching him intently as he picks up a rope.

Your eyes are glued to his hands as he holds the first rope in his hands and finds the middle. His deft fingers quickly make the first loop and then he disappears behind you, only to reappear moments later in the form of a gentle grasp on your arm. He slides your arms through the first two loops and tightens them at the elbows, then begins on the second set of loops. All the while, his hands and arms are brushing against you, and you move your arms while you still can, groping around behind you until you find something solid--his knee. He tightens the second loops just below the first ones, and after that it's over quickly and your arms are immobile. 

You hadn't even realized how quiet it had been until he speaks again. "How's that?"

You open your eyes--when had you closed them?--and turn your head slightly, chirring a soft note of approval. Your arms flex in an instinctual vie to regain control, but you sternly remind them that you don't  _want_ control, and the struggle stops.

Grand is right there through it all. "You're amazing, sharkie," he reminds you, and your purr rumbles back to life in your thorax. "You're doing perfectly, I just have to get your legs and then you'll be done; lie back for me." The way he says it is like you have no choice in the matter, and even though ultimately you know, in the back of your mind, you do still have control over the situation, you obey him anyways.

You lie down on your back and he rolls you onto your front, his strong hands pushing at your abdomen. You're still purring even as your cheek smushes against the hard floor, because his hands are still there and so is his voice, whispering sweet nothings to you as he drags his hands down your back, over your tied arms, down your hips and resting at your thighs. He has the other rope in his hands, and even though you can't see it, nor can you feel it very well through your pants, you still shiver all the way down to your toes when you hear the first knot being made. His hands follow your pants all the way down to your feet, where he removes your shoes, and then he slides the two loops up your legs and back to your thighs, where he tightens them. He then uses that first knot to bring your calves up to meet your thighs, and wraps the excess length of rope around your ankles to form another loop that he puts around them.

He checks you every few loops, making sure you're still into it. You assure him every time that yes, you still want this and no, nothing is hurting. Still, despite the monotony of the routine, you can't help but feel like this is where you belong. Maybe not necessarily exactly like this, with your face on the floor and your arms and legs tied together, but something like it. You don't belong in such a position of power as you are, but you guess you'd much rather be the leader than one of the grunt workers.

A little sigh slips from your lips as the last knot is tied around your knees, and Grand asks you once again if you're alright, to which you reply with a happy little groan and clicking of your throat.

He doesn't reply. Instead, he picks you up by the hips and throws you in a nauseatingly impressive flip, catching you with an arm behind your shoulders and another where your knees might be if your legs weren't trapped. He carries you like this through the hive until you reach your living block, and he dumps you on the sofa in the gentlest sense of the word.

"Wait here," he commands you, as if you could go anywhere even if you wanted to, which you don't. You don't know where he goes, but he's not gone long and that's all you care about. He comes back with a plate of fruit, so you guess he went to your kitchen, but you don't remember getting any fruit recently. It's confusing but you overlook it, because you have the best fucking moirail on the planet. He sits you up on one side of the couch then sits himself down sideways. You're gathered into his lap with one hand and pulled flush to his chest as he lays back, all while keeping the plate perfectly level so no grapes or other fruit fall off. His back hits the cushion with a soft thud and you huff out a breath, then a laugh. 

He reaches behind your head and pulls off the gag, not bothering to untie the knot. He pulls out down to hang around your neck and you immediately close your mouth, clenching your jaw to try and regain some strength there. Something cool and smooth is pressed to your lips, so you open them and take the small mystery fruit. It's a grape, and it's sweet and juicy and only slightly tangy, which is just how you like them. You're lying on top of your moirail, bound in rope and being hand fed grapes like you're the fucking empress, and honestly you kind of feel like it. Grand is too good to you, and you let him know that. 

"Grand, you're too good to me."

"I'd do anything for you, you know that. Motherfucker don't even have to do nothin' and you'd still be perfect."

"I'm not perfect, Grand-"

"Pale for you, my pretty little shark."

"...Pale for you."

**Author's Note:**

> ive never actually written anything for either of these characters before and theres not much in canon to go by so i just kinda tried to fuse eridan & cronus and gamzee & kurloz into each other, i hope you liked it!


End file.
